Winchester Vs Whiskey
by CV3
Summary: What happens when running out of painkillers at the egde of need. Hunters would be more guilty than most of simple substitution. This time, it's an injured Sam's turn.


Winchester Vs Whiskey - 

Sam could hardly interpret what was going on around him.

They had been … by the lake, somewhere. He had been cold, then hot, worryingly hot. Then so tired, he couldn't care less. It felt so good to just release, but even then a part of his mind had known he was in serious trouble. If the demon blood fiasco has taught him anything, it was the maladaptive response that anything that felt that good was sure to kill him.

He had felt a vibration - the impala? Maybe. He didn't care.

"Sam!"

Dean's voice, from far away. Sam dragged his fogged mind back to reality enough to register something soft beneath him - a bed, he guessed. Something smelled musty. Then there were hands on him, and the distinct smell of sweat - that borne of fear. _Sam … _his brother's voice, and sharp with the edge of panic.

"Sammy!"

His body tilted - something cold against his mouth.

"Here, drink this."

Sam opened his mouth obediently, only to shy away from the sharp sting of alcohol. Whiskey, he guessed. He groaned and turned his head away from the chill of the bottle.

"No…"

"Sam, listen to me!" Dean's hands, implacably strong, the snap in his voice so reminiscent of dad, long dead, that it startled them both.

"Listen up, damn it. We don't have any painkillers left, after that mutual stitching in Michigan. Right now, I need to cut the pain, man. Pain is the big risk here. We have to dull it before it gets you, Sam. Please, trust me. Drink."

The bottle was back at his mouth, and some part of Sam understood. The fog in his head, the hot-cold numbness spreading through his body, the awareness that he wasn't shaking anymore. It was classic. The shock would kill him before the pain, if something didn't dull it. Alcohol was all a desperate Dean had left. He gulped, feeling the oak acid burn of the Jack that flowed into him. He resited coughing - needing to man up for his brother, even half dead with blood loss. He would have laughed if he'd remembered how.

"Good, that's good. Just a little more Sam, come on."

Dean tipped the bottle again, and Sam obediently drank, pushing down his natural gag reflex. He had been drunk before. Hell, he'd been three sheets to the wind wasted - Dean's birthday, when he was at Stanford and missing his brother so much it ached, unable or unwilling to call Dean. Jess had put him to bed then, loving him enough not to need an explanation, only offering comfort. When he had realized he couldn't save Dean from the demon deal, when he realized his brother wasn't fighting this, that maybe he wanted to die, for it to be over. Then pretty much the entire time Dean had been in Hell and he was powerless to stop it. Plenty of times. No big deal, right?

Sam hadn't noted his tears until Dean tipped the botte a final time, and swiped what felt like a rough thumb over Sam's temple.

"I know, I know it hurts, Sammy. I hate to do it, but it'll help, and we ain't got anything else. I'm sorry. Drink."

Sam gulped obediently, but this time, couldn't help the cough that sent pain stabbing into his ribs. He groaned.

"I know." Dean's voice consoled. "Shit, I'm sorry Sam, just hold on okay? One more should do it, then I'll stitch and hopefully you pass out."

The cold greeted his mouth again, and Sam drank deeply under Dean's instruction, the bitter mash of the Jack scouring his mouth, infiltrating his veins. He may have whimpered, though he'd easily deny it later.

"Take it easy Sam. Just a few stitches, and you're done."

Sam barely felt the slide of the needle as it wound its cold progress through his skin. He was hot, his head spinning. He knew Dean was there through the steady tugging at the skin of his ribs, and he tried to take comfort in that.

"Dean …"

Sam cracked his eyes open. Dean sat in the chair by the small round table in another no tell motel, elbows braced on his knees, face drawn, hands clasped against his mouth.

His tired eyes flicked up to Sam.

"Sammy?"

"Dean … " Sam raised a hand sluggishly to rub confusedly at his forehead, more confused by the numb disconnect. Something …

"Dean … m'I drunk?"

Dean coughed out a laugh.

"Yeah, it's more than likely. The only thing I had on hand was the Jack, and you were going into shock. I had to slow it down. Sorry."

"N's okay," Sam instinctively consoled. "been … been long time since - was drunk."

"Yeah, yeah you ain't exactly a big drinker, little brother."

Sam attempted to focus on Dean, who looked oddly pale and worried.

"S'okay." he said. "S'okay, Dean. Did what you had to."

Dean choked on another short laugh. "Yeah, sure. Like dad did with me all those years when he ran low on pain meds. Perfectly reasonable." He dropped his pale face into one hand, and Sam felt his brow crease in consternation.

"Hey," he forced out. "'S okay. Gonna be okay."

"Yeah," Dean replied bitterly. "Drugging my brother is just fan-friggin-tastic."

"Yeah, beats dying," Sam murmured, his eyes slipping closed. He vaguely felt Dean rustle to his side, his brother's cold, resistant hand curling around his.

"Shit, Sam, I'm sorry."

Sam passed out again before he could formulate anything worthwhile to say.


End file.
